The puzzle of the red sock
by Arches67
Summary: Mozzie has a theory about this too…


This is a sequel to "The mystery of the missing sock"

Total crack. Do not drink while reading this…

* * *

Mozzie and Neal were enjoying a nice bottle of wine on the terrace of June's house.

It was late spring; the air was just warm enough to make it a wonderful evening to be outside. The noises of the city were slightly muted by the late hour, and only the occasional shrill of an ambulance pierced the relative silence now and then.

They had been chatting friendly. Neal's last case with the FBI had been wrapped up; Mozzie hadn't come up with some new crazy plan. Things were nice and quiet, almost _too_ normal for people like them.

"So, did you figure out the story behind the red sock?"

"Huh?" Neal's brain kicked in overdrive to catch up on that. What the hell was Mozzie talking about?

"Couple of weeks back, you apparently didn't know why red socks kept appearing in white batches of laundry…" Mozzie reminded him.

Neal stared. They had been discussing the rise of impressionist painters in France. Mozzie had always been partial to Monet, Neal had a soft point for Manet. How did his friend make a leap from painting to socks, or even worse, dirty laundry?

His face must have betrayed his puzzlement because Mozzie shook his head in dismay. He loved Neal with all his heart, his friend was one of the smartest persons he ever had the chance to meet, but sometimes he was just a kid, an innocent one at that. Probably part of that charm that made females swoon within a three miles radius.

Neal blinked remembering the discussion. He had been joking when he had mentioned the red socks, not expecting Mozzie to have a comeback. He should know better… Mozzie never forgot anything. Blame that extraordinary memory of his.

"Yeah, right, your theory about missing socks," he grumbled.

He hated Mozz for that one. Although he didn't believe a word of that particular theory, he couldn't help thinking about it every time he puts his socks on in the morning. As wild theories went that one was farfetched, he really didn't need to think he was monitored by both an anklet and a sock on the same foot. A guy needed some privacy after all!

"So?" Mozzie prompted.

"So what?"

_Okay, lost him again_. He cast a look at the table. The second bottle was almost empty. He usually held his wine better than that…

Mozzie sighed.

"You genuinely seemed to ignore why red socks kept appearing in batches of white clothes."

_Go with it, you know how much he loves rambling about his theories. Be a friend and show some support._

"I admit I do not know. I always thought it was some sort of bad karma…"

"That happens to every single person who has ever had to wash stuff?"

Okay, so statistically it wasn't plausible. Still, bad luck happened.

"So you have a theory…" Neal prompted him.

"Not a theory! These are facts."

Neal remained silent. Mozzie watched him wondering then realized his friend was just waiting for him to go on.

"Invisible ink."

Neal's brain froze.

_Main failure of thinking process… Reboot needed… _His lungs complained when no air reached them and he suddenly opened his mouth to start breathing again.

"Invisible ink?" he whispered, wondering if maybe he hadn't heard right.

"Yes, of course."

Right_. Of course…_ Well, in Mozzie's world anyway.

Neal considered himself quite intelligent, he knew he was, no use being modest about it. He needed to be if he wanted to be what he was. You couldn't con people if you weren't the brightest around, sharp as a tack. He also knew Mozzie was way up on the scale. His perfect memory was of course a helpful added bonus. He usually managed to follow Mozzie's train of thoughts, not necessarily because he had the intelligence to, but because he knew the man and that gave him the additional needed boost. Other times, he just relied on Mozzie to do what needed to be done; that was what being a team meant. You shared the job; each took care of his specialty.

Still, sometimes, like now obviously, he felt like he had been ordered to explain the universe… on a board, with a chalk. He was faced with a blank wall and couldn't move on.

One thing about Mozzie was that he knew who he was. He didn't need to brag about it, it was just his life. So he had come to terms with the fact that he often had to step down to be on the same level as most people. It didn't happen that often with Neal so it always took him a bit by surprise. Like now, when obviously the man wasn't even _trying. _He watched the table and the bottles. It normally took more than that to make Neal tipsy, but he was kind of tired…

"What's the important thing about invisible ink?" he asked almost in lecture mode.

"That you can't see it?" Neal felt like he was facing Mrs Teller, his English teacher in fourth grade.

Mozzie sighed, looking as if his most promising student had suddenly lost all talent.

"Obviously. What else?" he asked patiently.

Neal raked his brain. "That you can make it appear?"

Mozzie smiled, relieved by the answer. There was still hope. "See, easy enough!"

He took his glass and finished it before helping himself for more. Sitting back the watched the night sky.

Neal followed him with his eyes feeling more and more anxious. _That was it?_ What did that answer have anything to do with his white t-shirts turning pink?

Apparently oblivious to his friend's panic, Mozzie was sniffing his glass, enjoying the smell of this particular vintage.

Neal was almost afraid to ask. He knew he would disappoint Mozzie, but he needed to know the answer. The more he thought about it, the less it made sense. Red sock, white laundry, white laundry turning pink, invisible ink. Nope, his brain couldn't figure this one out.

"Mozz…" he pleaded softly.

His friend turned to him and frowned, then his shoulders fell.

"You don't get it, do you?" he asked in a sad voice.

Neal shook his head softly, ashamed. Mozzie answered with a small disappointed smile. He realized he was seeing a Neal very few people even knew existed. Lost, helpless, begging his friend for assistance. Behind the confident con that could sell the moon to Martians, was a fragile being who found it hard to have to rely on others.

"The main thing about invisible ink is that you can't see it, yet it is there. Therefore, what is missing is the important part to consider, right?"

"What's not there is as important as what is?" Neal tried.

"Yeah. Like… braille. The punches are as important as the plain surfaces, right?

"Yes." Neal nodded sharply. That did make sense.

"So…"

"The pink stuff is the invisible ink?" Neal tried.

"No!" Mozzie put his glass down sharply and rose; Neal couldn't help shrinking in his chair almost afraid he was going to get hit for his bad answer.

His friend sighed when he saw the defensive posture. Then frowned. He had never hit Neal, would never. He definitely didn't like that defensive reaction, almost instinctive. Where did that come from? Neal had never told him of being bullied… Although, with a mind and a body like that, prison probably hadn't been all too great. He sighed again. He would need to talk with Neal about that someday.

"No," he repeated more softly. "The pink is obviously the part you see, it's what you don't see that's important."

"But how do you know it's there then?"

"Because of the pink."

Neal's brain hit the blank wall again. He needed to stop the wine. Or maybe open a third bottle…

Mozzie started pacing trying to find a way to make Neal understand.

"Okay. Let's try this differently. You write a message with invisible ink to somebody." He stopped to look at Neal who nodded quickly. So far, so good.

"Then you need to make sure the person you send the message to, knows there is actually a message to be read."

"I'd assume he would know."

"Not necessarily. Depends on why they need to use the process, the circumstances… You remember when we went after the flag?"

"The Culper ring history?"

"Yes. They used the laundry on the clothesline to let the spy know they wanted to meet."

_And here we go again with laundry,_ Neal thought.

"So…" Mozzie prompted much like a teacher pushing his student to think of an answer and not just wait for it.

"The red sock is the laundry on the clothesline…"

"Actually the white turned pink is."

"So they know they have to look for the invisible ink."

"Exactly."

"Why would anyone write on clothes?"

"Neal!" Mozzie yelled and Neal flinched again. Mozzie winced, he hadn't meant to upset his friend. "It is obviously a metaphor. It means there is something to watch for carefully."

"On pink stuff?"

"On the people owning the pink stuff…"

Neal remained silent for a few moments, going over the information.

"Okay, I get it. Somebody wants to warn a third party to intervene, he puts the red sock in the white stuff, and then his contact knows he needs to watch the person."

"There! That's it." Mozzie beamed like a proud teacher, proud of his best student. "And please don't pretend you don't know we are constantly watched."

Neal opened his mouth, but Mozzie stopped him before he could say a word.

"No, don't ask me who put the red sock. You never know who put the right sock, that's why you get mad when you open your machine and find out everything is pink!" He shrugged, "beside, obviously, the fact that you know you are being watched once again."

That wasn't Neal's question.

He was actually going to ask who watched who and why, but Mozzie would probably explain once again how they were constantly watched, and monitored by "a secret something". He didn't think he was up for another theory. Not tonight. Not after two bottles of wine. After all, there was only so much his friendship could take, even from Mozzie.

He'd make sure to get rid of any red sock he might have in his drawer. Should be safe enough then.

"So you think Monet's _Glaçons sur la Seine à Bougival _in the Louvre is the real deal?"

"Not a chance…" Mozzie answered starkly.

Neal cast him a slightly worried glance but didn't utter a word. Some questions were definitely better left unasked.

* * *

The end

* * *

AN/ No white laundry has been harmed during the writing of this story.


End file.
